Warm Hearts Chilled Skies
by TheSandFromEmbers
Summary: A soft sigh echoed through out the room. Breathing evened out. And lights has got dimmed further. The window started fogging up again. Obscuring the face – bit by bit.
1. Chapter 1

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Molly decided that she will spend the evening in her room, after finishing off with a straight 13 hours shift at the morgue. She tapped at the window glass, again. And turned towards the bed, Tody has managed to neatly wrap himself up between the sheets and was snoozing away.

It is close to one in the night. The light from the street below is coming in, in sporadic beams. Sometimes, a car engine or a faint horn can be heard in the distance.

And Molly. Molly's eyes are wide open.

Sleep will not be coming to her tonight or rather today, may be. And neither will the dreams, that has plagued her for the most part of the past three days. Maybe.

She wondered, if she can just leave through the door and cruise out and around the city by her own. Though will it be safe?

Probably not.

Also it was too cold outside. A chill has seized its surrounding. Molly has at least sneezed three times before making herself a cuppa.

Now to the dreams, again. They were not strange. They were not unwelcomed.

Though they were not necessarily welcomed, either. She is supposed to have passed that stage, become more mature and more in tune with the pragmatic ways of the world.

She is feeling that thing again. She was supposed to have stopped feeling such. She has not so long ago made a deal with herself, to be strong. To hold back the tears. To forgive and forget him.

No such luck it seems, though. They have never left, lurking just behind the shadows. The shadows residing in her mind.

She looked up again at the window. The glass is fogged, now.

She started drawing a face with one of her finger pads. A face is drawn – a hollow circle. Then two dots, depicting eyes. She hesitated for a movement. A pregnant pause. Whether to draw the curve of the mouth – upwards or rather down? A distant car horn was heard.

She returned to her bed and closed her eyes.

Today will not be the day or the time to reveal what should not be revealed. Not to crumple away the façade. Or not to put up the hackles.  
Tonight is not the night. The curve of the mouth is upwards. A smiling face on the glass. Not really inconspicuous, it is open up for the outsiders to view. Ones who cares to, that is.

A soft sigh echoed through out the room.

Breathing evened out. And lights has got dimmed further.

The window started fogging up again. Obscuring the face – bit by bit.


	2. Chapter 2

Counting stars, so up in the sky,

Look how they gaze upon us with a sigh,

One, two, three and then it spans out to infinity..

Molly was packing up her clothes into the large, brown and battered suit case. It was old and worn, as one can clearly see but somehow she was not able to part with it, yet.

She eyed a blue cardigan thoughtfully and neatly folded it up inside the case. She was at the same time, crooning along to the song, playing in a constant loop inside her head.

The song. This song was her own creation when she was just eleven years of age.

She often hums it unconsciously whenever she is at the most peaceful state with her own self. The lines act as a back-story of her childhood excursions of stargazing in the fields of Glasgow along with her aunt Grace. Grace was and still is a professor of Cosmology at the University of Texas at Austin. She was the one responsible for the over flowing stock of physics books and research papers in her three book shelves. A passion that, she eagerly inculcated into herself along with the wide and intriguing realm of Pathology.

She went down far into the memory lane while simultaneously searching for her wood-coloured comb at the vanity. Aunt Grace had a set routine of coming up and staying with her parents every year at the time of spring. A season, which was witness to Molly's birth, into this world.

Though she was the fraternal twin of her father. It was with her mother that aunt Grace formed the deep bond of sisterhood. They cooked together, shared their stories and reading recommendations and sometimes, more astonishingly danced to the tunes to Marvin Gaye.

A cat-shaped duffel bag used to hang by Molly's left side, on hers and aunt Grace's fortnightly outings to the vast fields. The bag contained some star-chats, a packet of almond cookies and a big red hued bottle, which could carry anything from water to apple juice.

On aunt Grace's shoulder was the heavy and revered telescope. An instrument that both enthrall and made her a bit pensive at the same time, and still do.

They used to hog down on the cookies and sip at the juice while plotting away the celestial bodies and discuss about the volatile composition of hydrogen and helium. And oh! Not to forget to engage in which dying star stage the sun is currently in.

With a very, very dour countenance on aunt Grace's part and a slightly frightening level of excitement on Molly's.

Though she now guesses that she was always a bit of morbid in that way. And then she chuckled to herself.

Oh Molly!

It was all talk of serious science and rationale with her aunt. Though it was her mother, Julia, who actually ingrained in her the sense of creation and innovativeness.

Did Einstein not say what was science without imagination? Or most probably, it was something along those lines.

Julia, is now a retired teacher of Art History, who Molly did not always get to have to herself during her initial years. Her mother was someone, who constantly roamed the globe, sometimes to teach, sometimes to research and other times to explore and find her own peace of mind.

She used to paint, write and make up songs. She used to send her post cards from different nations of the earth.

One time, when she was in her six standard, she received a post card from her mother. It was when Julia was spending her time teaching at Baroda, Gujarat a state of India. The post card, contained a drawing of young Indian girl, roughly around Molly's age. Two plaits hung on either side of the girl's head, tied up with ribbons and wearing a peculiar attire, which Molly then failed to recognise. It was only later that she came to know from Julia that is an ethnic wear called 'Salwar' and quite popular among the citizens. And years after that, Molly saw her best friend Meena wearing the same to her twentieth birthday party.

Her father, Mark, was the one who supported her all along her teenaged years. A chef by profession, who discarded a prestigious position at a reputed bank just only after three years of settling into it. His passion for cooking was awe inspiring to Molly. With the help of his wife, who send quite a handful of culinary recipes from a multitude of cultures kept Molly's taste-buds on constant state of delicious numbness.

With a maverick streak of disregard for gender-roles, her father guided Molly into the arena of morbid fantasies and obsession with the death. He constantly demanded books and literature about the culture of the afterlife, the colloquial fascination with zombies from Julia. Sometimes it was graphic novels from Japan and other times it was the wide range of written documents recorded by anthropologists in the hinterlands of South America.

The dead held Molly close to themselves, contributed to her then burgeoning intrigue into the topics of the death, biology and social psychology, being inundated by a creepy stock of human mind creation.

Thus she is standing where she is now. Nope, we are not talking about her achievement in the profession of Pathology, which of course deserves a horde of lauding. But her current state of retrospection. The state, which have, made her finish packing the luggage without her own awareness.

Time has passed on and made it sometime after six in the evening, while Molly was in her own world of torpor.

She will be spending the coming one and a half week at her Glasgow home with her aunt and mother. And after that the party of two sisters, though not related in blood, will be leaving for their tour of the southern parts of Ireland. A plan, which was struck into the pipeline for the past ten years and now only seeing the day light.

It was her only chance to meet and revel in the presence of two brilliant minds before they leave her and civilisation for seeking out their own adventures.

Though brilliant minds or not, those two never can keep the toothbrush in alignment of straight lines, a thing which has given Molly a slight OCD. And birth to an obsession of keeping toothbrushes of all kinds, into absolute straight lines.

And oh! Speaking of toothbrushes, she has, forgot to pack her own.

It was already past seven when she came out of her musings again and turned towards Toby. The cat at the exact moment meowed back at her.

"What a coincidence", she muttered to herself.

"Are you hungry, Toby?" Molly asked him. And Toby eyed her languidly in turn.

"Well, of course you are and so am I. Let's me just get us some food then, alright?" She smiled.

Though she did not managed to get a reply from the other occupant of the room.

She thought to herself, that she definitely got a weird cat but then it is her cat. Emphasis on the word 'her'.

Two bags of groceries dangling from both her hands. Molly was carefully trudging up her path through the side-walk. Snow has melted and provided with a slippery obstacle to the pedestrians.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a couple of foot-prints clearly indented on a spare mass of powdery snow. The size, were at least three times larger than her own tiny ones.

She was suddenly flooded with the memory of her childhood. When she used to follow, a couple of steps behind her mother, through their garden during the winters. A generous amount of snow covering the whole area, and not a single blade of grass poking out of the white-washed blanket.

She invented a game of trying and fit her own shoes to that of the size of her mother's. Ones that were the same, as big compared to hers as the prints in the present. Her mother was a fast walker and she used to imagine if someday she somehow managed to match to her shoe-size, she will be able to unlock that wonderful ability on her own, as well.

Molly smiled and step into the first of the prints by planting her left foot on it. And thus she renewed an old game.

If she had looked up and turned towards her right, then she should have witnessed a unique scene playing out.

A potpourri of a girl, the reflection of which was there on the large shop window, crisscrossing her legs, zig-zag in a peculiar manner. Melting in and fading out with shadows of light rays interspersing them.

And beside the window, was standing a tall, lanky man. A mop of dark brown hair on his head, an elegant black belstaff shrouded his form. With iridescent eyes he looked on to the young girl who was unaware of what she was doing to the man's heart. A calmness had descended on his entire being. He longed to join her. Though he stayed put, corners of his mouth lifting up and reciting the words – wordlessly - of his own heart like a mantra, which he wanted to convey to the girl with such desperation he hardly ever experience. His mind want to persist, though – now is not the time or the day, maybe.

Now is not the night. Maybe.

What they both didn't know, neither the man with pining soul nor the girl with a serene smile, that the later was trudging and following onto the steps of the first.


	3. Chapter 3

Time to interact with the shadows again. Ones that have been subdued for a long, long time. They are of various shades of dark – grey, auburn black and navy blue. Shimmering, enticing enough to capture ones full attention – lethal, rotten enough to fill anyone's heart and mind with dread.

The dreams, the nightmares – depends on how one looks at them – are coming back again. Lulling Molly to sleep, comforting her and as a climax drawing out sobs upon sobs from her unconscious state.

She has refused to address the issue for a total of nine months now. Fear, ignorance and reluctance mixed and matched themselves to provide the excuses.

He. The Man – wanted by her to be forgiven and forgotten and yet occupying her mind at all times of the day. Forgiveness was there. Forgetting though – no, she still hasn't.

And that was what making her go round and round in a vicious circle of bottled up emotions steaming on a garbage heap.

It was already close to eight in the evening, when Molly decided to climb up the stairs to the roof. The other occupants of her apartment never have deigned it sensible enough to occupy the uppermost level of building, especially when it is the season that rolls out frequent misty, cold wintry nights.

Pulling close the hood of her jacket, Molly settled down near the edge of the four story building roof. The street below is nearly deserted. Only two pedestrians are to be seemed, decked up in heavy winter wear walking up in a steady pace towards their destinations.

The crisp, icy wind has been caressing Molly's face – making it freeze and burn with its parched breath. Pursing her lips, her eyes surveyed the distant horizon of the city. Electric lights winked and dimmed down at her. The clinking of plates, glasses and other cutlery reached up to her from the lower story. Mr. Radcliffe's small family is finally settling down to have their dinner. The whispers and hum of the television can also be heard.

Times like such make her feel lonely. A pang in her heart bubbles up.

She has always been alone in her pursuits and desires. Never lonely. The new sensation has been gripping her for the last six years, a beginning of a new phase of her life – that she desperately wants now to end.

It was during this period that life made her fall in love and trust with him. The Man.

Now, neither the trust nor the love remained. Only an ache, that does not want to leave.

A heavy sigh released from her mouth. She has taken a decision. A decision to finally move on.

Come out of her shadows. Shedding the foreskin of the past incidences, unfortunate enough to touch her. Or maybe they were fortunate.

A person, yes another human being is helping her to ease out this tedious process.

Jane.

Jane is her name. Jane with the smooth bronze skin, with the copper eyes and the lush black afro.

A doctorate in Social Sciences and a weakness for almond coffee.

They met when Jane came to St. Bart's to conduct a seminar on gender-sensitivity. Molly eagerly attended it with her two interns, who looked too submerged in their mobiles to lend their ears and attention to anything else.

Though the same was not the case with Molly. A person who has to fight her way through numerous biases and prejudices to achieve a position in the field still conceived as inconvenient for women – a kindred spirit was a relief.

At the end of the session, Molly hesitantly approached the doctor of the society, to ask if the latter will like to join the first for a fruitful period of lunch and discourse on the nature of human beings.

The reply was a beaming face and enthusiastic nod, marking the sweet beginning of blossoming friendship.  
They talked about the Freidan's The Female Mystique, the paradox of patriarchal forces and pineapple pizza.

Molly came to know about how all kind of sciences including the medical ones have been fabricated and interpolated throughout the ages to satisfy the already over-inflated ego of stereotypes and stringent social control.

They discussed the history of cabaret dancing, what it initially meant to be a part of Cabaret – political discussions, poetry slams and fuming debates.  
Meaning changes – and so does the outlook.

Common sense and rationale vying against each other to come out as the victor.

The heavy masquerade of zillions of truths and realities.

It was in the second month of their acquaintance that Molly disclosed her dreams, her nightmares to Jane. Her struggles were not taken with sympathy. But the one everybody deserves – Empathy.

Jane relayed about her girlfriend Michelle Goodman – a clinical psychologist. An asexual. An ex saxophone player with knack for making the most mouth-watering bake goods.

Molly has saved Michelle's contact details on her phone. Promised the couple to get in touch with them as soon as her dreams, her nightmares begin to plague her again.

The girl with the cinnamon curls, blinked and become aware of her surroundings. An hour has passed by. The fringes of her lips, has turned blue. Red adorned the tip of her nose and the whites of her eyes.

Time to get a move on.

The slamming of the door resounded through her living area. She sniffed.

The cold has got to her.

Turning up the heater, Molly looked for Toby. It is time to feed her silly cat.

A gentle meow was thus heard from her bedroom.

Molly rolled her eyes.

Really, a silly cat.

Though first, she has a task, a mission to complete.

Moving towards her coffee table, she picked up the mobile. Swipe through the contacts.

Found, what she was searching for.

Michelle.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling from her lips – she dialed the number.

The phone was put up to her right ear.

Her eyes unseeingly stared at the fogged up windows.

Mist is swelling and descending outside.

The clock was a minute away from turning nine in the night.

The line on the other side came up to life.

Ring. Tick. Ring. Tock. Ring. Tick.

A few streets away a melody was floating down from the first floor. A violin was being played. The man's eyes were closed. A dreamy expression on his face.

The embers in the fireplace was burning with ardent passion.

A human skull look upon the scene unveiling before it silently, from the mantle.

The man in blue robes, suddenly turned. A swish of clothing. A blur reflected in the medium sized mirror.  
The bow was drawn upon the violin strings with outmost emotion.

Emotions which the man only displayed to himself. Sheltering his soul from the hurt.

Though tonight, the atmosphere was a tad bit different. A small smile was playing on the man's lips.

He titled his head to the right, slightly.

To the world he will look like any musician making love to his instrument of expressing his inner self.

To himself, he saw something else.

A man who was making love, yes, but love to his beloved – a young girl with amber eyes, a shy smile and tinkling laughter.

And the love was made through his instrument. His violin.

He truly is expressing his inner self.


	4. Chapter 4

The time is passing slowly.

Dust motes turn visible and invisible in a yacto-second.

A yellow face on the opposite wall smiles up at the view.

Breathing is coming in and coming out.

Even and slow. Even and slow.

Eyes are fluttered closed.

Dark curls on his head, mused.

A pen is twirling in his fingers.

Once. Anti-clockwise.

Then clockwise.

The left foot taps a rhythm, unconsciously on the carpeted floor.

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

An experiment. With Bunsen burners.

Copper when fixed with oxygen burns green-blue. The colour of his eyes.

Sodium when mixed with oxygen burns orange. Her favourite fruit.

Lithium when mixed with oxygen burns red. Desire.

Flame tests. An elementary lesson in Chemistry.

All going round and round in his mind.

He is starting from the scratch.

A second chance.

Her name involuntarily resounds throughout the room.

A single word is uttered. No more.

His heart rate escalates.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The name that leaves his mouth is loud and clear.

No hesitation. His eyes wide open.

Sherlock's –

"Molly".


	5. Chapter 5

Shrouded in a play of shadow and light, the curtains still and stoic was Molly's apartment. Toby was resting on the window sill. His eyes reflected the green and purple hues of the small pot plant lying by his side.

A steady electric groan was heard throughout. The fridge was disintegrating after years of use. Small and sporadic rays escaped through its door, giving the object a mysterious sense in the otherwise dark room.

Magnets adorned the fridge's surface. From To-Do lists to post cards, the flyer for the latest discount on pizza to an article on aliens and planet Pluto. Among this paraphernalia, a curious yellowed, slightly crumbled and dog-eared single sheet stuck out. Put in a plastic zipper, it looked more like belonging with the group of one of the crime-scene evidences. Though it was far from any of the sensational world, that did party inhabit Molly's life and morgue.

A twenty-years old piece of writing that Molly received on her eleventh birthday. A gift from Julia to her daughter.

The paper was inscribed with feelings and things untold. Things that a mother never had the time to confess to her daughter. A story of her own struggles, never left her mouth but after a contemplation of a whole night gave into her mind and channelised into words. Words that spoke of the harsh reality, the disappointment of her grandparents, the warning and an enticement.

Julia knew that her daughter maybe was too small to understand all that was written and sent to her. A young mind, is unlikely to decipher the journey that has taken more than a decade to cover and a battle against a society and her own parents who refuse their daughter's transgression from the maternal role allocated to her and pursuing a path that only humans who identify themselves as males and more particularly sanctioned by the society to follow.

Molly did understand though, an understanding that came with the ending of her teen years and the loss of her father. A gift she both cherished and despaired. As we only understand the true worth of something after we loss it forever. It becomes irrevocable. It becomes indispensible, thus.

A pseudonym. A pseudonym for a 'field' of endless opportunities and interpretations. And that was what Julia wrote to her daughter.

 **A letter to Savannah –**

 _Girl, you will go around the world with those rheumy eyes and under the fading skies. Over your head will be a blue umbrella and clutched in your hands the handle of a battered wooden case. The jacket, you will be wearing, will be dark, torn in places and your shoes will be sole-less. Neither you nor I can change the past, but the present and the future are in my hands. I have been waiting long to bide my time. When the summer dies, the rain will come. It will bring flood, you will be washed way. You will not wish for land, you will not wish for dry. You will want to be wet, to get lost in the whirlpool of eternal wetness. You will see the feeling of being lost into the unknown, lost into an adventure delving for a new venture. There will be book named Blue Petals. Hiding and lying in anticipation in the left drawer of the cupboard of your grandfather's room._

 _Do not touch it. Do not read it._


	6. Chapter 6

A journal was lying open in front of Molly. A ball point pen was being chewed absentmindedly by her.

The duvet was covering up to her waist, the materials on her lap. The lamp casting her room in a faint but sufficient light to view and write her mind.

Though the pages were still blank. The digital clock on the bed side table showed ten in the evening.

Dinner has been done away with an hour ago. Toby was allowed to kip on her sofa for the night. Doors and windows have been locked and double checked.

Today saw her appointment with Michelle again. The psycho-therapy sessions now had stretched onto a whole of three months.

Feeling and heartbreaks revealed and argues and quarrels exchanged. Advises were given. Some taken, others implemented and the rest ignored.

One of those that can be considered lucky enough to be taken as well as being implemented for the first time – is that Molly should start documenting her inner conflicts, boredom and random scenes from her life into a journal.

Michelle suggested that to build the trust in a more solid manner between two of them, during the next visit she will have a look through Molly's writings.

At first Molly was a bit perturbed to learn that her most inner thoughts will be out in the open, no matter if it is to a dear friend and her counselor.

Thoughts that she consider should not be disclosed so soon and if ever.

She knows that what have been told to her was to actually make the weighs she bears a bit more light.

Molly has already opened up about certain events of her life to Michelle. Those she was too scared for a long, long time to reveal to anyone else. To reveal to even her own very shelf.

And in reciprocation and professional caliber, Michelle unveiled a few of her very own.

Her eyes travelled over the left of the room. Chart papers, Sellotape, scissors of varying sizes along with stickers of reindeers and sledges are huddled one over another.

She has drawn smiling emoticons by her black marker over two yellow chart papers. Along with it, Molly also decided to sketch three rainbows with a sun peeking from behind them.

Slightly mushy, true. Molly acknowledged.

Absolutely nauseating, fact. Meena conceded.

This year for the Christmas celebrations, St. Bart's decided to focus on the Pediatrics ward.

And Molly was one of those who volunteered.

It was an unspoken truth between Michelle and Molly, that the later is diagnosed with clinical depression.

The word depression was uttered a lot of times during the exchanges. Diagnosis never.

Months have been spent by Molly on her bed silently, tears freely falling from her eyes. Nights after nights.

Sometimes sobs were heard and sometimes not. Though mostly they did.

Social situations were avoided. Meeting up with friends were excused. Phone was mostly switched off. Baths were not taken. Hair was not brushed. Clothes were not changed. Temper was not controlled.

A blade was kept tucked away under the mattress at all times of the day.

Things that changed after the frequent sessions were extremely slow and extremely subtle.

Baths were taken. Hair was brushed. Clothes were changed. Temper became slightly stabled.

When frustrations, anxiety and impatience gripped Molly again. She screams into the pillow. Tear down that day's newspaper into pieces and took Toby to bed with her to cuddle and feel a bit better.

Molly was trawling through one of the sites on how to cope with depression, when struck upon a tip that volunteering and similar activities of helping others may actually help themselves to recover.

She texted Jane and Michelle about it and gained thumps up from both of them.

Thus she was slowly progressing towards her task of making aesthetically pleasing caricatures and their ilk to decorate the hall and present some of them to the toddlers and kids during the celebrations at her hospital.

Molly supposed that attending and doing work for such an event should be taken in a positive light by her as the occasion will be social one but of pressure due to the presence of little ones instead of their adult counterparts.

Coming back to her present situation, she looked at the open pages of the journal for a few minutes. Released the pen from between her teeth and opened the cap.

Closing her eyes she took a depth breath, Molly slowly let it escape through her lips.

No use, putting a pause to the task and yes it is a task to her, any longer.

Avoiding him. Avoiding the man.

Avoiding his name will cause nothing more than more hurt to her.

No benefit in holding back any longer.

She has waited long enough.

In a rush the sound of scribbling was heard. The friction of the pen's nip over the surface of the page.

A single word become pronounced as Molly lifted her hand from the page. The shadow receded and light fell upon it.

The word. The name. His name. The man's.

A name with which Molly's hope once started and with the ending of which it will start once again.

'Tom'.

 _Back in the corner of the room a yellow chart paper contained several happy faces and in the middle of them one had the curve of its mouth downwards. And this time it is not fading anywhere, anytime soon._


End file.
